


rock stars can be hazardous to your health

by Etharei



Category: RPS (American Idol/Music/Glam)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Secret Identity, Secrets, Touring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-03
Updated: 2010-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etharei/pseuds/Etharei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. rock stars can be hazardous to your health (1/2)

**Author's Note:**

> Once upon a time, I had a rule against writing RPS. Clearly, that has gone the way of the sparkly unicorn. This is not quite my first RPS fic, but I suspect the comment drabble that popped the fic-cherry is now lost forever in one of the Adam Appreciation Posts at ontd_ai. So I'm considering this my first proper fic.
> 
> I _know_ the premise is crack. I intended to write it as crack. But the story... had other ideas. Possibly it is revenge from my writing muses for not writing for so long. Also, it was meant to be short. Yeah.

There are days when Adam really, really hates that he gave up smoking. It's been years - officially anyway - but his fingers and lips still twitch after a certain level of stress, and this is how he knows he _can't_ have one.

He still escapes out into the back alley, because the side exit door is closer to their table than the men's restroom. If he's the punching type he might have a try at the wall, but he's not, Aquarius temper or no, plus, _photoshoot on Monday_.

His feet dance to their own private tune, nudging away an empty beer bottle. Okay, he's a little bit drunk. He'd stopped ten minutes ago, because Monte had taken away the pastel pink drink (with a chocolate-covered cherry stuck to the glass).

Fresh air is good, though. Well, cold night air. He can feel it waking him up, chasing out the heavy humidity of the club that had been hampering his... floatiness.

He doesn't even see the other man until rough fingers land on his shoulder. And, not the punching type, but nearly ten years on the club scene has made him familiar with the dangers that come with it and he's not shy about using his height advantage-

A push from another direction, he stumbles, _fuck there are two of them_. The wall is rough under his hands, concrete cold as ice. By the time he figures out his feet and rights himself around, he's staring at a familiar shock of blond hair.

"Hey, you all right?" asks Tommy.

Adam nods. Looks over Tommy's shoulder and sees the dark shape slumped against the dumpster. Homeless guy, from the battered jacket and dirty scarf. "Yeah." He frowns. "You didn't hit him, did you? If you did, you should tell Hannah." Adam's learned to tell his publicist everything before she finds out for herself. It's generally the less painful option.

Tommy grabs his arm, starts leading him back inside. "Nah. He was already on his way down, I think you were just standing between him and his bed for the night."

"Mmm." Tommy's hair smells nice. And Tommy just laughs when Adam sticks his nose into it. Adam remembers that Tommy doesn't have a girlfriend right now, so if the others aren't ready to leave yet, at least Adam can make out with Tommy. He feels a lot more cheerful.

~*~

It's been over a year, and Adam still can't get used to the intensity of some of the fans at these Meet-and-Greets. Some M&amp;Gs he's done were cool, laid-back affairs where it had felt more like he was hanging out a casual party with a bunch of people. Others had felt like the room was one word, one smile, one misplaced hug away from turning into a mob rushing for him. It hasn't happened, so he thinks it may be mostly his imagination combined with the blatant adulation on strangers' faces.

In any case, he has bodyguards.

There are actual protesters outside _this_ concert, or there were when the tour bus pulled in, but the M&amp;G attendees don't look too worried about it. It's a smaller affair, which he prefers, and instead of being stuck behind a table, he's walking and mingling. Well, standing, mostly. The biggest crowd is around him, and as it tends to happen, a line of people waiting to get his autograph had formed, but there are also pockets of fans around his band mates, spread out through the room.

A young woman shyly thrusts a photo into his hand, and he automatically signs it, grinning when he he takes in the image; his management _strongly encourages_ him to sign only official tour memorabilia, and the photo is of him and Tommy at the AMAs. It's a less widely-used shot, taken from behind Tommy. There's already a signature on it, under a written message, _He's a good kisser!_ Adam, feeling silly and relaxed, scribbles, _Tongue in cheek!_ then inserts a _his_ between the _in_ and _cheek_. The young woman looks ready to explode on the spot, but manages a quiet thank-you and a barely-there hug before disappearing into the crowd.

The next one in line is a woman that looks to around his mother's age. He silently hopes he doesn't get another well-meaning cheek-pinch, which have increased in frequency the further south they've traveled. Her hair is pulled back in a neat style, and she's smiling at him in a way that usually signaled impending cheek-pinching. There's a young man with her who looks close to Adam's age; there's enough resemblance to suggest they're mother and son. He's staring at Adam in a way that makes Adam feel instinctively uncomfortable, but the mother is hugging him warmly and, hey, his cheeks remain unmolested, so Adam focuses his attention on her.

He'll remember it later only because of the weird tension and the inexplicable surge of adrenaline through his body. He signs the woman's CD booklet, accepts her gift of a handwritten recipe for non-fat banana bread with genuine cheer, and is engulfed in flowery perfume and a third hug when he notices the son stepping close. In another situation, Adam would attribute it to a child's usual embarrassment about their parent, but the man's dark look was leveled entirely at Adam.

Time takes on a certain heaviness, a like a pause.

A warm, soft hand touches his cheek, pulling his attention back to the woman. Luckily she refrains from pinching, patting him lightly instead. When he looks back up, the tension in the air is gone and he spots Longineu signaling _ten minutes left_. Tommy appears from behind the still-glowering son, apologizing to the fans around him, and tells Adam, actually, make that three minutes, because Adam has that call-in interview to New Zealand.

Which is a total lie, because Adam's scheduled for it in the morning, but he can see that Tommy's looking a little wild around the eyes. Probably another _well-meaning_ fan gift - Tommy gets almost as many as Adam, which he totally deserves because he encourages the fans so much. Adam hopes it's something as hilarious as those matching rhinestone-studded cockrings from two stops ago. He smiles at the next fan and idly looks at what Tommy's carrying. Three gift bags hanging from one arm, a stack of greeting-card-sized envelopes in the corresponding hand, and a battered Swiss Army pocket knife in the other, which is unusual but, hey, not the weirdest gift they've gotten by far.

He should fold it back up, though; in this crowd, people could miss seeing the blade and get hurt.

~*~

People go missing every week, in Los Angeles, in West Hollywood, the horror stories passed around the grapevine as both warning and lesson. Half the time, the details don't get worse with the telling because there's no way for them to _be_ worse, and when the newspapers and local media finally acknowledge _this terrible, terrible crime in our community_, they fill in the gaps of what had been left unsaid: blood, weapons, no witnesses, no leads, no way to find them.

The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation. There's cloth over his eyes, too, tight enough that he can't open them, but he's sure it's dark around him.

And it's cold.

He doesn't really remember how he got here.

They'd just finished a concert, he'd gotten back to his hotel. Tommy. Tommy had come in, but Adam had felt antsy, too wired to sit still, and if they'd started on the light petting then he'd have wanted to push it further. He was going to take a walk around the hotel, work it off, Tommy should just chill out in his room until he got back.

He's not sure where they could have grabbed him. It's all a bit fuzzy after he got into the elevator. Did he get out? He remembers seeing the doors open, stepping into the lobby, but he could be mistaking a memory from that morning.

At least he knows people would be looking for him, eventually. Having crazy, dedicated fans has its advantages. Ideally, Tommy would wonder where he'd gone after a few hours. If he hadn't fallen asleep waiting. Adam's hooked up before when he was meant to be hanging out with Tommy, but he's always texted him first. And then Lane will come looking in the morning - if it isn't morning already -

Thinking had helped calm him, or at least slow his breathing, and when his line of thought drizzles out he stubbornly tamps down on another surge of panic. How long has he been gone? He'd woken up to silence, face pressed into a cold surface, legs tied together and hands bound behind his back. Wiggling had only caused him to scrape his cheek against the rough floor, but the sting of small cuts woke him up all the way. He shakily rolls up to a sitting position.

It's all going to be fine. If they were going to kill him, they'd have done it by now, right? He doesn't feel like he's injured, or even bruised. So, probably a kidnapping? For all he knows, he's been out for longer than he thinks and they've already made their ransom demands. He hasn't seen a kidnapping action flick for a while, but he thinks that's how it goes. _Idol Runner-Up Kidnapped Mid-Tour! Is the South still hostile to gays?_ Then, a race against time to rescue him, because kidnappers don't really release kidnappees- oh, they don't when the kidnappees have seen them, or know who they are. Adam has absolutely no idea who could have done this to him, and he's _totally fine_ with being oblivious, really, so long as he gets out in one piece. One living, breathing piece.

He tugs, ineffectually, at the tape around his wrists. Feels like duct tape. At least cloth was used for his mouth and eyes, because the tape is going to be a bitch to rip off. And he _will_ be taking them off.

He doesn't know how long he sits there. He can hear pipes rumbling, thumps that could be footsteps or dripping water, but it's all far away. He hasn't detected anybody else, any sign of human life, since he's woken up. The kidnapping idea starts to sound like the better possibility; Adam tries not to think about just being abandoned in a basement where no one can find him, left to die slowly and alone.

He wouldn't have thought he could fall asleep like that, but evidently he can, because he jerks up suddenly, aggravating the same cheek again - sounds, and whatever is making them is coming closer. He forces his body to take deep, regular breaths. Muscles that had been kept in an uncomfortable position protest at the instinctive tension. Adam's ears narrow down the direction of the noise - they're very faint, unnoticeable if not for the unbroken silence that he's been sitting in all this time.

There's a different sound, and it takes Adam several long seconds to figure out that it's like a doorknob being tried. It tells him where the door is: about ten feet away, far enough to be on the other side of a room. He uses his legs to wiggle back in the opposite direction, until his back hits a wall. There are muffled metallic noises, more rattling of the doorknob, and then - almost too loud - the sound of a lock sliding free.

The door doesn't creak, but the whine of the hinges jacks up his heart rate. Footsteps, definitely heading for him. Adam's tries to swallow, but can't get his throat to work. His heart is ready to leap out of his chest, the cold is seeping under his skin, his body is one slip of focus away from lashing out with all he's got-

"Adam?"

The next inhale is an audible gasp. His jaw aches and spit is trickling down the back of his throat; he's coughing even as he tries to say, "Tommy?"

Thin, nimble fingers touch his face, tracing the cloth over his eyes and mouth. Tommy is close enough that Adam can feel his body heat. He shivers. Tommy seems to understand, because he moves closer, making it easy for Adam to lean his head forward onto Tommy's shoulder while Tommy pulls at the knot of the blindfold. The familiar scent calms Adam down and makes him want to fall apart at the same time. A harder bout of shaking ripples up his body.

Practically cradled by Tommy's arm, Adam feels the momentary stillness, before Tommy says in a low, unfamiliar voice, "Fuck this. Stay still."

Before his imagination can run away with the possibilities, there is a soft _snick_ and the blindfold drops limply from his face. He blinks, and discovers he'd been right about the darkness.

The gag has to be peeled off him, and he ends up coughing and spitting on the floor. Tommy keeps him from falling over, already at work on the other bindings. Fuck, the taste and texture of the gag cloth is permanently imprinted on his tongue. His body starts shaking, gets even worse when his arms and legs are free.

"Hey, hey," whispers Tommy, callused hands on Adam's face. Actually, his skin feels rougher than calluses. "You're dehydrated. Those _fuckers_." Now Tommy's body is a long line of anger, but he handles Adam gently, carefully. He stands up and takes Adam with him.

Adam can stand on his own. Mostly. "What are you-?" he rasps.

"Later, okay? Right now we have to get out."

Out sounds good. _Not that he isn't already, ha ha._ Figuring out where his feet should go is already getting a little beyond him. He makes a valiant effort to walk to where he thinks the door is, but gravity is a sneaky bitch and pushes him into Tommy. He feels himself being pulled in a weird waltz-like turn, _step step step feel the lead's body and follow_, Tommy's long bangs tickling his nose.

Another steppy dance, in a vaguely straight line, and he should tell Danielle that he's figured out this ballroom stuff, like she said he would eventually. Maybe Tommy's just a better partner.

He stubs his right toe several times before he realizes, _oh hey, stairs_. He's putting a lot of weight on Tommy, but Tommy is clearly stronger than he looks, and Adam's been sticking to his diet better since tour started.

Then the warm Tommy-shape under his arm turns into a wall, and the stairs, and he hears Tommy say, "Shit. Stay here, okay? Just need to... get the car ready. Sit." Adam nods. He can do that. "And don't pass out!"

He doesn't think he does, because the fear comes back when he's alone again. It really _is_ dark; if he had been in a basement and they're not climbing up, he should at least see a bit of sunlight at the top of the stairs, right? Unless they're inside a house. But it's too quiet, it feels too _isolated_. He wiggles his fingers, his toes inside his shoes. It feels good to be sitting down.

Adam jerks back when he hears the unseen door open somewhere above, but it's Tommy again, and he's wordlessly urging Adam to his feet. Tommy feels a lot warmer now, his skin a little sweaty. Oh, there's _more_ skin, too.

"Put this on," says Tommy. He's taken off his outer layer, one of his ridiculous hoodies - a baggy one - and is impatiently pulls it down Adam's head. Adam doesn't think about his size stretching the material, pushing his arms through the sleeve because he can still dress himself, thank you very much. Actually, it's not as tight as he expected, not even loose.

"Is this one of mine?" he asks, frowning down at himself.

He doesn't need to see Tommy's eye-roll to know it's happening. "Hey, you said I get free access to your suitcase."

_And other things besides,_ he remembers. The memory makes him smile, and Adam winces when the stretch splits the dry skin of his lip.

Tommy is moving them up the stairs again. Adam's right, there's a trapdoor at the top rather than an indoor-house type of door, and it opens into the night sky. And... an empty field?

There's half a moon out, unnaturally bright after the darkness underground. Adam gulps in the fresh air, filling his lungs with it and feeling it chase out some of the fogginess in his mind. The field is not totally empty: he can make out what looks like a small house or shack at the far end, backed by a dark line of trees, and a pickup truck several feet away from them.

There are also weird dark lumps scattered over the long and wispy grass. Tommy is dragging him towards the truck before Adam can ask about them, but he figures it out quickly when one of the lumps moves, unfolds into a vaguely humanoid shape, and growls, _"What the fuck?"_

Adam can appreciate the feeling. Tommy gives no indication of having heard, except he doubles the urgency with which he's making for the vehicle. And it's not like Adam wants to _stay and chat_ with his likely kidnappers, but there must be a dozen of the lumps on the ground, and only one of Tommy, and _what the fuck._

He doesn't even see movement, but the next second he's been shoved forward and he's catching himself on the hood of the truck. The engine is running and the metal is warm under his palms, almost painful to his icy skin. It feels like deja vu, but he can't think of when this could have happened before.

Adam turns around just in time to see Tommy - funny, pretty, talented _Tommy_ \- drive his fist into a man's gut and, as the man doubles over, round-kicks his knee into the side of the man's head. The man doesn't even make a noise at the second blow, just collapses sideways onto the ground.

Tommy stands still for a long moment, his gaze resting on the man but clearly just avoiding looking in Adam's direction. He's not even breathing hard, though sweat is adding a shine to his bare arms, made even more ridiculously pale by the black tank he's wearing. Adam can see him swallowing before he looks up, tentatively meeting Adam's eyes.

He's staring at Adam like he's _scared_. He's just laid out a guy twice his girth and he looks _scared of Adam_. Of everything that's happened so far, this feels like the most absurd moment of all.

Which is why neither of them notice the _other_ guy, or his gun.


	2. rock stars can be hazardous to your health (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The gag is cutting into the skin around his mouth; the fabric is soaked with saliva, sweat, salt. He can't hear anything beyond his breathing, which is too loud and too fast, on the verge of hyperventilation."_ Adam doesn't always know when he's in trouble, but luckily he has someone watching his back.

The guy jumps out of nowhere and locks a meaty arm around Tommy's neck. Adam instinctively steps towards him, but freezes when the guy presses his gun to Tommy's temple.

"Stand back, you big fag." Adam steps back until the back of his thighs hit the truck. The new attacker looks big enough to snap Tommy in half. "I bet you damn hippies have never seen one of these before, huh? So let me tell ya, it'll make a big ugly hole in your friend's pretty head."

Tommy's still struggling, slapping at the man's arm and trying to elbow the gun away.

"Cut that shit out. You got lucky on me once, you little fucker." The guy tightens his hold, spitting out in Adam's direction. There's a dark line trickling down his nose. "Be sure I'm gonna rough _you_ up once we're back downstairs. No one's paying for your ass to be in one piece."

Adam feels like he's toeing an edge, nerves on fire. He wants to fidget, and at the same time feels too scared to move. He almost dives forward when Tommy catches the barrel of the gun with his elbow and knocks it away, but it's back on his temple in the next second and the man looks ready to just snap his neck, he squeezes until veins pop on his arms and Tommy is audibly wheezing.

"Who the fuck are you and what do you want?" the words slip out before Adam could think about them. He can't tear his eyes away from the gun, the man's finger on the trigger. Maybe, if he could take his attention away from Tommy...

"Huh. _I_ want to wipe freaks like the two of you off the face of God's earth. But in this case, I'm just a middle man. Being paid for honest work. But I might have given my employer a discount on this job."

Tommy's face is flushed, mouth open and gasping. But his eyes are steel, like when he's concentrating on a new song and he's determined to get it right; something in his gaze calms Adam down. He's got one hand clutching at the man's fist next to his neck, and the other is... pulling at his ear?

Adam's not sure what happens next. The man is starting to say - or spit - something, but what comes out is a shout of pain. Tommy's fingers are like claws on his fist, drawing blood, the thumb and index pushing - _shit_, pushing something silver under the man's _nail_. The instant the headlock loosens, Tommy is ducking under and kicking backwards and _up_. The man curses but keeps his hold on Tommy, the two bodies somewhere between kicking and wrestling.

_The gun, the gun!_ Adam's mind is screaming. He may have shouted it, it's hard to tell because his ears are ringing from the adrenaline; in the next second, the little dark object becomes visible amidst the confused tangle of limbs. Tommy strikes before it's fully pointed at him again, one hand making a sudden cutting motion at the body of the gun, and it goes flying. Clatters loudly onto the ground a few feet away from Adam.

Adam goes to it. He can't think of what else to do. It gleams under the moon, just a complicated assemblage of metal. Except Adam's seen what people have done to each other with it. (At Burning Man one year, somebody had said to him: if the monster inside us could have a shape, it would look like a gun - not evil, but the part of us that doesn't live.)

For some reason, Adam glances back at the struggling men before reaching for the weapon. Tommy is looking at straight him, like there's not a guy currently trying to bend his arm in the wrong direction. Adam can't read the look on Tommy's face, but Tommy shakes his head, lips soundlessly shouting, "_No!_"

Their attacker catches Tommy on the chin with a wild swing of his free arm. It looks like it must hurt, or even daze a little, but Tommy instead looks _pissed_. Like that's the straw that broke the secret ninja bass player's threshold for physical violence.

Adam stops himself from laughing, mostly because he's sure that that would be _his_ last straw, and carefully kicks the gun away from the struggle and any of the other bodies. He's quite sure they're all only unconscious, but he doesn't check. Mostly because he's about _done_ with playing hostage and, the thought comes, he'll be sharing a vehicle with Tommy very soon. Tommy, who had single-handedly dealt with all these men and rescued Adam out of a basement.

_Storm shelter, more like,_ he realizes, looking back at the trapdoor. _Shit. Focus._

A particularly loud groan snaps his attention back to the fight. He doesn't see what Tommy does, but their attacker suddenly crumples to his knees and joins his comrades, another dark lump in the grass. He's closer, so Adam can see that he's definitely still breathing. But what was a trickle from his nose earlier is more of a river now, his bottom lip is split, and the alignment of his shoulders looks _wrong_.

"Come on, we gotta go," says Tommy, wiping his hands on the man's dark shirt. He jogs towards the truck. Sees the gun where Adam kicked it, hesitates. His arms and neck look even shinier with added perspiration, and he's breathing hard. After a motionless second, he goes back to the prone man and tears off two sections of his shirt. Back to the gun, Tommy picks it up with his hands covered by the strips of cloth, opens it up, takes out the bullets, and flings them in different directions into the open field. Drops the gun.

"Adam." It feels like coming out of a trance. He meets Tommy's eyes. "Adam, get in the truck."

He does.

~*~

Adam talks a little bit in the truck, or at least remembers doing so. He must have asked Tommy where they are several times, but the words won't stick to his brain. Eventually Tommy says, in the kind but authoritative tone he'd used earlier, "Why don't you close your eyes for a few minutes? You're repeating yourself. We've got a long drive ahead, you could probably do with a nap."

Going back into the dark is the last thing Adam wants to do, but, _secret ninja bass player_, so he closes his eyes.

He wakes up with a start, fear-dreams still echoing under his eyelids, and he's on a bed, in just his briefs. There's light between the gaps in the drawn curtains, but it's not very bright. A large clock on the wall declares the time to be 6 o'clock. The sole source of light in the room is a bedside lamp.

Adam's throat is the driest he can remember it ever being. He spies a glass of water next to the bed, downs it in one.

"You should drink more, but slowly next time, or you'll get sick."

Adam's head snaps up. Tommy's standing in the doorway to what must be the unlit bathroom. He's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

Questions. Starting with, _what the fuck?_ Except all of them rush through Adam's brain, clogging the path to his mouth, and in the end he doesn't know where to _begin_.

Well. "Thank you," he manages, wincing at the sound of his voice. Yeah, no singing for a _week_, that's for sure. "Thank you for... getting me out of there."

Tommy nods, eyes not quite meeting Adam's. "You're welcome."

The awkward silence stretches, made even worse by the fact that Adam has _never_ felt awkward around Tommy. They've walked in on each other in various stages of undress, while making out with relative strangers, while jerking off, and just laughed about it afterwards.

Adam reminds himself that Tommy _rescued_ him. Tommy _laid out at least half a dozen men_ to rescue him. "Okay, so- _what the fuck?_"

Tommy chuckles, and there's a slight hysterical edge to it. "I guess... Is there any chance you could, I don't know, accept that I was being a good friend and helping you in your time of need? I mean, last week I faked an asthma attack so you could get that hot doctor's number."

"Contrived medical emergencies in the pursuit of sexual gratification is a perfectly common practice!" Adam exclaims, waving his arms before he remembers, _ouch_, sore muscles. "Which he wasn't fooled by for a second, by the way, you're a shit actor. But an actual Rambo-style rescue from the basement crypts of back-country fundamentalists? Yeah, no." He points an accusing finger at Tommy. "_Talk._"

Sighing, Tommy reaches into a black duffel bag next to his feet and pulls out a bottle of bright orange Gatorade. "Only if you drink this. Slowly."

Adam grimaces, but Tommy looks quite serious, and, yeah, Tommy's probably right about the dehydration thing.

"I told you about my uncle who's a Marine, right?" Tommy begins. Adam nods. "He's got a son in the Navy. I have second-cousin who's in the FBI. We don't think of ourselves as a, a military family or anything. But... shit, I'm doing this all wrong. Um."

Adam breathes out. The weirdness he'd felt earlier in the field, seeing Tommy fight the way he did, is... still there, actually, but now he can see again the Tommy he's known for over two years. He pats the bed. "Why don't you sit the down, first?"

Tommy does, with uncharacteristic timidity that would have made Adam laugh if it weren't so absurd for Tommy - _who took down half a dozen men, fuck_, yes Adam's a little fixated on this - to be so scared of _Adam_.

"I've told you that I tried the music thing straight out of high school. As far as my family knows, I was a struggling musician all the way from when I moved out of their house to when I met you. But there was a time, I don't remember when exactly- but, I hit rock bottom. You know how it is, how it can get." Adam nods. He does. "I was in a bad place, or getting there fucking fast. I knew that, that if I didn't do something, didn't change something, my parents were going to see a police car drive up to the house one night."

The way Tommy's slouching in on himself - Adam badly wants to touch him, rest a hand on his slumped shoulders. They've always been really tactile with each other, it's one of Adam's favorite things. But now there's a stranger there, too. He may have saved Adam's life, but Adam could never take being lied to by someone he trusts.

"My uncle happened to get in touch with me again. Next thing I knew, I was in boot camp." Tommy huffs out a breath. "It changed my life, all right. Turns out, playing guitar gave me really nimble fingers." Adam looks down at Tommy's hands, clenched in his lap. "I was in training for a couple of months, got really good at the physical stuff. They put me through all these tests, and- I was considered for Special Ops."

Special Ops. Adam rolls the words around in his head. He should feel something about that, a reaction, but the idea is too... abstract, too far outside of the parts of the world he's familiar with. "Tommy, show me your hands."

His tone gets Tommy to glance at him, unsure, but he obediently holds out his hands, palms up. Adam grabs them with his own, assuring himself of their solidity, and turns them over.  
Tommy's pale skin always bruised too easily. Adam can remember the hundreds of times he'd listened to him complain about it.

The knuckles are a mass of black. The skin had split on the knuckle of his right ring finger, and there's a wide assortment of cuts down the back of the hand and fingers. More extensive coloration has crawled over the fingers and down almost to the wrists.

"Do they hurt?" asks Adam, a little breathless, throat tight.

"Not too bad," replies Tommy, just as softly.

He's cleaned the cuts, Adam can see. They'll be gone in several weeks, none of the cuts look like they'll scar, and the bruises will melt back into normal skin color eventually. It'll be like they were never there.

But now Adam will always remember.

"You were trained to do this?" he asks.

"Not really." Tommy wiggles his fingers, a nervous habit. "Too small and light to be one of the main agents, too twitchy to be a sniper. I think they were considering me for a specialty job, like ammunition or reconnaissance. But it fell through. I left, and picked up my guitar again."

"You never... fought again, after training?" Because what Adam had seen had not looked like someone who'd gone cold turkey on the physical for years.

"I take martial arts classes at the gym, at random centres when it's offered for free. Just to keep myself fit." Tommy adds, a little defensively, "I've told you about _those_."

He had. Adam just hadn't envisioned... _this_. "And tonight. Or, last night?"

"You were taken two nights ago. I got you out last night. Decided to stop when I saw how deeply you were sleeping, and you were out the whole day."

Adam nods. It occurs to him that he's still holding Tommy's hand, his thumbs now brushing lightly over the battered skin.

"And I got lucky, back there," Tommy continues, eyes fixed on their hands. "Big guys who have always had a gun don't usually do well in close-quarters. I've always been fast. And I was, you know, pretty pissed."

Tommy babbles or stutters when he's nervous. His hands are as thin and bony as Adam remembers. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I may have activated the GPS on your phone after you left your room." Tommy makes a face at Adam's expression and pulls his hands away. "What? Sometimes you don't even know when you're in danger! I knew something was wrong the moment your elevator went to the lobby and back up again without you leaving it. I managed to catch up just as they pulled you into their van in the hotel parking lot. Drove off quickly, so I followed in the truck. They tossed out your phone, watch, and jewellery along the way. I would have tried to pick them up but I didn't dare lose the van. I was lucky the truck had a full tank of gas."

Adam frowns. His hands feel cold, now, without the weight of Tommy's. "Where did you get that thing, anyway?"

"Um. I appropriated it?" Tommy gives him a sheepish smile.

"We've been driving in a _stolen vehicle_?"

"I'm gonna it back! It was the only thing in the hotel parking lot that would be inconspicuous around these parts, plus the driver had left the keys inside."

Adam buries his face in his hands, pulling up the sheet over himself. They've gone several countries past _too much_, really, and while the Gatorade he's been sipping has woken him up even further, the numerous little aches and pains of his confinement are now clamoring for his attention.

"Do you know who they are? What they wanted?"

"Not exactly. But you know that pile of hate mail and death threats that we've kind of been keeping from you? Well, obviously you wouldn't know. Whoever hired those guys probably has something in there."

He hears Tommy sigh, and the bed shifts with the loss of his weight. Adam looks up just as Tommy is shouldering the black duffel. "Where are you going?"

"To catch a bit of sleep, now that you're awake." Away from the lone lit lamp next to Adam's bed, the dark bags under Tommy's eyes are more noticeable. "We'll head out in a couple of hours, I recommend taking a shower." He puts a 7-Eleven bag on the side table. "Here's more Gatorade and a chicken salad wrap, you should finish them if you can."

Adam catches his wrist before he can move away. "Tell me you paid for a second room and you're not just going to go sleep in the _truck_."

Tommy looks away, shrugs. "It's pretty comfortable. I've slept in worse?"

"Yeah, no." Adam slips out of the bed, grabs the duffel bag, and pushes Tommy down by the shoulders onto the clean sheets. "I'm going to take a shower while _you_ sleep on the _bed._"

The shower is a _fantastic_ idea. The hot water feels so good on his skin, and he only realizes how grimy he'd gotten when he's fully clean again. To his satisfaction, Tommy is asleep on the bed when he emerges; Tommy's jeans are on the ground and he's wearing a sleeveless shirt. Adam's extra careful to not wake him up, but the other man just snuffles and rolls to the other side when Adam sits on edge of the bed, just in a towel, and turns the small television on. The Gatorade and cheap food taste like gourmet masterpieces. He shucks the towel, and finds that it's deliciously warm under the covers with his and Tommy's combined body heat.

He wakes up, again, to a dark room - the television's been turned off, as well as the bedside lamp. But the curtains are partially open, letting in the moon. He can just about make out 2 o'clock on the wall clock.

And Tommy is watching him, his head propped up by an arm. Tommy looks a bit abashed when Adam turns his head to look directly at him, and starts to move away.

"Tommy."

Adam had only meant to say, _it's all right, stay_. But the name comes out low and hoarse, and in the quiet he hears the responding hitch in Tommy's breathing.

He wonders if Tommy had known to open the curtains so that Adam wouldn't wake up in the dark. They're not even touching now, but Adam feels warmest where he's closest to Tommy, and he doesn't acknowledge the way his eyes skirt the part of the room that's entirely in shadow.

This close, he can see the cut on one corner of Tommy's mouth, the dark bloom where that last man had caught him on the chin. Tommy looks a lot less tired now, and he'd gone after Adam like it's the most obvious choice in the world...

Adam doesn't think about it - his fingers are in Tommy's hair, Tommy makes a low noise in his throat when he's pulled down on top of Adam, and they're kissing, lips pressed together, skin brushing over skin. Adam grazes his teeth over Tommy's lower lip, forgetting about the cut, but Tommy just groans and opens up, his wiry body melting against Adam's larger one, sucking in Adam's tongue.

Desire feels so much better than fear; this, at least, is very familiar to Adam, and he wants more. Adam wants to forget the dark, forget the cold, forget everything but the pleasure they're building between them.

And he does forget. He forgets until his hand is on the waistband of Tommy's boxers, and his brain kicks back in. _This is Tommy._ Adam takes a deep breath and pulls away, though the effort makes him want to cry. Or hit something.

"Adam?" asks Tommy. He's staring, like he doesn't understand. It takes him a long moment to figure out why Adam's stopped.

But when he does... lightning-fast, Tommy's fingers dig into Adam's shoulder and manhandles him and, oh hey, Adam finds himself on top of Tommy before he even registers the movement. _Shit._ Tommy's looking up at him, eyes dark and intense. Adam sucks in a sharp breath when Tommy's legs spread under him, one leg hooking up around his waist while the other gets traction from the bed sheet to grind his hips, and his erection, against Adam's, the cloth of Tommy's boxers creating amazing friction on Adam's bare skin.

"You know how I said I was straight?" says Tommy, breathless. "I kinda lied about that, too."

Adam's knows better than to be upset about this, he does - because the world has made this truth more terrifying than death, which is just _wrong_, and what's one more lie on top of everything - but some of the hurt must show on his face. Tommy says _sorry_ with lips mouthing along Adam's jaw, his hands touching Adam everywhere. "I never cared before, but it became habit, in... in those couple of years. And when someone outed me, it was awful because at the time I really wanted to prove myself, to do well at something, anything, _oh God_, so I hid it even more." A shudder runs through Tommy when Adam's fingers tease his nipple into hardness. "Maybe, I thought, after a few years of living straight, I could try again. Now, looking back, I'm pretty sure that guy saved my life. Saved my music."

For several seconds Adam finds it hard to figure out what Tommy's saying, the long hot line of Tommy's body a sweet distraction under him, but when the pieces fall into place, he closes the distance between them. Catches Tommy's lips with his own, parting them and dipping inside. He focuses on losing himself in the wet heat of the kiss, so that he won't have to think about Tommy caught in a war far away, Tommy hurting people before they could hurt him, Tommy's hands unable to hold a guitar. He hears himself whispering Tommy's name in a hushed, continuous chant, until there are hands cradling his face, gentle, and swollen lips whispering "Adam, Adam, it's okay, I'm here, _Adam_" over the damp trails on his skin.

Adam impatiently rids Tommy of his shirt, needing more skin _now_, while Tommy pushes down his boxers. The added contact is both relief and fuel to the near-physical _want_ surging through Adam's body. They thrust against each other, hands meeting and squeezing over their cocks, spreading precum everywhere. Adam thinks he'll ride to the finish like this, smoothing the movements of his hips as he ravages Tommy's neck.

But Tommy stills him. "Adam. Adam, please." He leans to one side, one hand rummaging in the duffel bag, which Adam had left on the floor next to the bed, and pulls out a couple of condoms and a tube of KY.

Adam dimly remembers there being reasons why this would be a bad idea. But they mostly belong to someone else right now. He's so hard it's ridiculous, like he hasn't had sex in a year. "You sure?" he asks, even as he coats his fingers with the KY.

"Yes. Please." Tommy nips and drags his lips over the skin around Adam's mouth, where the gag had aggravated the skin. "I want you to fuck me."

_Fuck._ Adam's arms tremble as supports his weight and his finger circles Tommy's hole, Tommy's hands clumsily rolling a condom onto him. Tommy is _tight_, enough to make Adam breathless; after Adam's finger breaches the first ring of muscles, Tommy's head falls back to expose the pale column of his neck. Adam can feel him trying to relax, to let Adam in, and he leans down to lick at the offered skin, murmuring nonsensical words.

He should let Tommy come, just on his fingers and maybe his mouth around the head of Tommy's cock. A second finger draws out the hottest little noises, which he steals from Tommy's mouth. He can tell that Tommy's almost there. Fuck, _Adam_ is almost there, just from this. And after, Tommy will be more relaxed-

Except Tommy is clearly also a mind-reader, because he grabs a handful of Adam's hair, and pants out, "Fuck me. _Now_. Make me fucking _feel_ it."

Adam swallows. He slips in a third finger, anyway, even though Tommy curses at him for being _a fucking tease_. When it seems like Tommy is seriously considering flipping them over and doing it himself, Adam pulls out his fingers, lines up his cock.

He pushes in. He'd intended to go slowly, but Tommy's ankle digs into his back, and Tommy tugs at his wrists and compromises his balance, so that he ends up sliding in almost all of the way. Tommy moans through the movement, long and choked off at the end, and Adam nearly comes right there.

"Are you okay?" Adam gasps.

Tommy's eyes are a little wild, desperate and consuming. "_Yes._ Adam, Adam, fucking _move_, damn you!"

The heat and tightness is incredible, almost too good; Adam feels only partially in control of his own body, pulling out and sliding back in. It's hard to think about tender wounds when Tommy is raking his nails across Adam's shoulders, his body and mouth telling Adam to go faster, _fucking harder like you mean it you bastard_. Unbidden, the memories return: Tommy, pale as the moon and a deadly force of nature, and here, Tommy, moaning with want and taking Adam into his body. Adam just... lets go, pounding into Tommy hard, rattling the cheap bedframe with every wild thrust.

Tommy comes with a shout that sounds like Adam's name. Adam feels the hot spurts landing on his chest, spreading over his stomach, staining the sheets. The air is heavy with the smell of sex, the scrape on his cheek stinging from salt, their mingled breaths stale like two guys who haven't brushed their teeth in three days, and Adam finally _feels_ alive, even safe; he hadn't realized he'd stopped doing so until the belief floods through him again, euphoria so sharp it's almost pain. He muffles his shout against Tommy's shoulder.

Adam thinks that he's sure to be bruised from how tightly Tommy is gripping him, but it's hard to care. His body suddenly wants sleep; he vaguely feels Tommy gently stripping the condom off, a damp cloth wiping him down, and Tommy rearranging him on the bed. He rallies enough energy to grab Tommy's wrist lest the other man gets other ideas, and only lets go when he feels Tommy joining him under the covers.

"Thank you," he whispers, and drifts off into the dark with the feel of Tommy stroking his hair.

~*~

"Fuck, management must be ready to kill us," says Adam with an equal mix of horror and amused disbelief. He makes no movement, though, aside from his hand lazily sweeping up and down Tommy's bare back. There's some interesting mold patterns around the ancient A/C unit near the ceiling; he's kind of afraid to see what the outside of the motel looks like.

"It really wasn't your fault that you got _kidnapped_," Tommy points out, cuddling closer, the shorter hairs on the back of his head tickling Adam's chest. "If it helps, I'll make sure they don't?"

That gets a laugh out of Adam, partly because of the mental image of Tommy taking on all of 19E and RCA, not to mention Adam's _mother_ (who is, frankly, far scarier than the former two combined), and partly because now he knows that Tommy actually _can_. Well, except for his mother, because his mom is smart and will know to distract Tommy with her oven-baked burritos first.

"Guess I'll have to take you everywhere from now on. For my own protection," says Adam. He shifts and rubs his leg along Tommy's inner thigh. Tommy sighs contentedly.

They should leave soon; as it is, he's going to have to answer two million questions from his team alone. And, somewhere, some very battered men are reporting their failure, probably never to be caught. At least he and Tommy haven't missed any concerts. Only a bajillion interviews with local media.

One of Tommy's hands is resting on his chest. It's a little dim to see the bruises as more than shadows, but he knows they're there. Tommy feels as small and skinny as always, half on top of him, but Adam's sure that there other bruises, other hurts that maybe Tommy himself doesn't even notice.

Fuck it.

Tommy's drifting off. Adam feels him tense, catching himself. "Shh, go to sleep." Tommy makes a protesting noise, but he relaxes again, and within minutes his breathing levels out to regular.

The world's a little bit different now, after all. Adam can use the time to think.

He pulls up the covers around them, and waits for the new sun.

END


End file.
